


The Mule

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Gen, Horse Racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-11 00:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20537405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Arthur has a mule. Micah hates the mule. Micah hates the mule so much that he challenges Arthur to a race to see if the mule would be better off sold to a glue factory.A mad dash around Clemens Point ensues.





	The Mule

Arthur’s mule was named Rooster and not a soul had to ask why. Every morning at first light, when the dew was still cold on the grass and the robins had just started their peeping, the mule would raise her whiskered nose from dreaming and greet the day with the wheezing, whistling, honking bray that only mule could manage with the full bellows of its lungs.

Arthur had heard a mule’s bray described as the sound of a dying man with his chest full of lead, or maybe as the world’s rustiest hinge. He hardly paid it any mind anymore, and no one in the camp complained much either. It was a sound as ingrained in their lives as Pearson’s knife dicing vegetables or Dutch’s gramophone yodeling in the deep night. Arthur had an ornery, chatty mule, but since he was the one who brought in the food, and the medicine, and the biggest scores, no one ever said a word about it.

Micah was the one who started complaining. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be riding alongside you on that jackass?” he said, while they were trotting back from a stage job.

“Can’t be worse than how Baylock feels with a jackass riding on his back,” said Arthur.

“Har-de-har. It just seems to me that a man who brings a mule to a robbery is a man who wants to get caught. That’s a beast for hauling coal out of a mine, not for making tracks.”

“Seems to me that we kept up just fine,” said Arthur, a little heatedly. The mule had trailed some ways back behind Baylock, as she always did with the faster horses of the gang. In the end, she always got away, if a mite slower than the rest. 

“'Just fine' doesn’t cut it,” said Micah. “Let me put it another way. Have you considered that you riding that animal means that every lawman for miles around is going to recognize you? The mule is slow as molasses and sticks out like a gangrene thumb. Don’t that concern you?”

Arthur thought Baylock with his freak blue eyes and moony face was a dead giveaway to anyone with a brain and a memory, but didn’t say so. His blood was up from the gunfight and he was feeling more than a little defensive. “What is your problem? Ever since you joined up with us, ain’t a day that goes by that you don’t dig up some complaint about Rooster.”

“No offense Morgan,” said Micah, twitching the reins with a finger to lead his horse down the wooded trail to Clemens Point, “but I despise that animal.”

“Why? What she ever do to you?” 

The mule, in sight of the camp, raised her nose and let out a trumpeting blast of whistles and haloos. The horses grazing in the pasture lifted their heads and pricked their ears.

"That is my problem,” said Micah, reining up between Ennis and Brown Jack at one of the hitching posts. He dismounted and began uncinching his saddle. “All hours of the day, wailing like a goddamn ghost in a cemetery. It drives me insane.” Micah let his saddle drop from his hands into the grass, his fingers remaining raised and open. His face was pulling between a smile and a scowl in that way it did when he couldn’t make up his mind about whether he was joking or not. “It just seems like a liability on all fronts.”

“Liability.” Arthur dismounted. Grasshoppers sprang up around his boots in the tall grass. “The mule’s a liability, but you shooting up the whole goddamn town of Strawberry and getting us run out of West Elizabeth ain’t?”

“You sure do love bringing that up, don’t you, Morgan? Maybe consider getting a new—”

The mule honked right in his ear. Micah jumped, his back bunching up like a cat’s, which he quickly smoothed out with a chuckle. He raised a finger to the mule like it was a naughty child, then backed away, still with that finger raised, before he spun and sauntered into camp like nothing had happened.

“Don’t you listen to him, girl.” Arthur patted the mule’s side. She tried to bite him, and he shoved her head away. “You’re worth more than a hundred of him.”

Arthur took the saddle off his mule and slicked her scarred hide down with a wet brush. He picked the crushed red clay from her hooves, then combed the burrs from her mane and tail. He gave her a slap on the rump, and she went honking and whistling back to the herd.

After he gave himself a bath in the river, he put on his damp, dirty clothes and drifted back to camp, where Miss Grimshaw was setting lanterns out on the tables for the evening. Arthur served himself a bowl of stew and sat on one of the wolfskin throws he had made, and talked for a spell with Javier about some enormous black fox he’d spotted in a stand of trees somewhere to the north. When his belly was full, he unbuckled his belt and went to his tent, where he fell face first on his cot and positioned his hat above his face, the long afternoon dimming to evening, and the wink of the fireflies putting him to sleep.

* * *

“Arthur?” A hand shook Arthur’s shoulder. “Hey.”

Arthur snorted awake. He can tell form the bad taste in his mouth and the chill in the air that he’d slept through the night into the next morning. A low mist was crawling across the ground, and all the tent flaps were closed.

Lenny stood above him, his face half-lathered and half-shaved.

“What it is?” Arthur wiped the drool off his chin. He was on his feet, his thoughts like tar and his limbs moving like molasses, already buckling his belt and reaching for his pistol. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing serious.” Lenny stayed his hand over the pistol. “It’s just that Micah is messing with your mule. I don’t know what he’s doing, but—”

Arthur was already out of the tent. The grass was silvery with dew, and a set of boot prints cut across the pasture. He followed them, anger waking him up. Lenny fell in step behind him.

Rooster was silent, and she was never silent in the morning. Arthur walked quickly across the pasture, through the drowsy horses who nosed and snorted at him as he passed. As he came to where he grass sloped down toward the river, he saw Micah quickly step back from the mule, who was rearing up on her back legs.

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Arthur put his hands on Micah’s chest and shoved. Micah lifted his arms, his face already taking on that joking smile of his.

“Calm yourself. No harm’s been done. Your little filly was making a ruckus this morning, it woke me up, so I came over to quiet her down. Here, does she look hurt?”

Arthur looked at the mule. Her long ears were flat against her skull and she was stamping her big, heavy hooves.

“I saw him take a swing at her head,” said Lenny.

“You didn’t see nothing,” said Micah. “Shouldn’t you be scraping off the rest of your whiskers?”

“It can wait,” said Lenny, leaning on a hitching post like he was ready to enjoy a show. “From what I saw, you tried to punch the mule in the jaw, and the mule was having none of it.”

“Even if I was,” said Micah, “it’s not like the mule can’t handle it. Can you really blame me for wanting to shut that thing up?”

“I ought to shut you up by putting you in the ground.” Arthur surged toward him, and Micah was smart enough to back up. “Give me one good reason.”

“Oh, what surprise,” said Micah. “Should have known you’d stick up for your twin, Morgan. It’s as stubborn and as ugly as you are.”

Arthur kicked dirt at him, and Micah laughed, keeping a few yards of grass between them. Arthur was about to make a lunge for him, when Lenny said in a warning voice, “Dutch.”

Dutch was sauntering across the pasture, making his way from where The Count was grazing. The noise and commotion had drawn his attention, and from the stubbled and bloodshot state of his face, that was not a good thing.

“What is going on?” he said.

“Arthur’s overreacting, as usual,” said Micah.

“Micah was going after the mule,” said Lenny.

“I was going after the mule, because it’s louder than a rusted steam engine. First thing in the morning, it’s heeing and hawing, waking everyone up and putting their nerves on edge.”

“Everyone?” said Arthur. “Or just you?”

“It ain’t just me,” said Micah. “Dutch here was just telling me yesterday how much he can’t stand the mule’s braying. Ain’t that right, boss?”

Dutch stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt, leaning back a little on his heels, seeming more tired and more raw-edged than Arthur could remember seeing him.

“You ain’t never said nothing about this,” said Arthur.

“Folks are nervous, Arthur," said Micah. “Maybe they don’t feel they can talk sensibly to a man who puts a slow, ornery mule ahead of the peace of mind of the gang.”

“Peace of mind? Rooster’s been running with us for years,” said Arthur. “She never bothered no one until you showed up.”

“Boss, I’m not trying to start something, but think about it," said Micah. "That damned animal can be heard for miles. Anyone riding down the road can hear it and know there’s people camped back here.”

“You listening to this nonsense?” asked Arthur.

“I’m just saying. I think everyone, including Arthur, would be better served if he traded in that nag for a real horse. Something that doesn’t mosey behind everyone else on a job and give away our location from a mile away.”

To Arthur’s alarm, Dutch was nodding along. “You know, he’s got a point, Arthur.”

“C’mon, Dutch.” Arthur wasn’t used to having Dutch take someone else's side. Dutch had always treated Micah’s unctuousness as a joke, a way of wheedling into his good graces, but more and more it felt like he was actually listening to Micah’s craziness. “Rooster has never given us away or spoiled a job. The same can’t be said of this fool.”

Dutch stepped closer to the mule. She had calmed, but her ears still lay flat against her head. Dutch raised a hand to pet her, and she peeled back her lip at him. Dutch lowered his hand.

“Ornery old cuss. Just like you, Arthur,” he said. “Her braying has been more of a headache lately.”

“Micah's just sore because he ain’t used to her. In a couple of months, he won’t even hear the mule anymore, same as everyone else.”

“I’ve been here long enough to know a liability when I see one,” said Micah. “And a headache.”

Dutch stared languidly between the two of them, drawing out the moment, enjoying the weight of judgment on his shoulders. Arthur was just short of begging, when Lenny raised a hand.

“Mind if I offer my two cents, boss?” Lenny was still leaning on the T-bar, chewing on a long stalk of wheat.

“Course, son. Speak freely,” said Dutch.

“It seems to me that the concern, if I’m taking Mr. Bell’s argument correctly, is that the mule is a liability to the gang. Is that correct, Mr. Bell?”

“Yes,” said Micah. “It is.”

“The liability being that the mule does not perform her job correctly—namely, keeping up with the rest of the gang during a heist or some other violent business, is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Micah, a little more warily. “Sure.”

“Mr. Bell also has concerns that the mule is too loud, and is a liability in that she might give our location away, and that she also disturbs the peace. From where I stand, the former does not seem to be a problem. As Arthur said, the mule has been with the gang for many a year, and has never once led the law to the camp. As for the mule giving folks headaches, with all due respect, Dutch, I’d say the Pinkertons are your headache, and if that factor was removed, you’d no more pay heed to the mule now than before.”

Dutch nodded along, a smile starting on his lips. “Well said.”

“So, the way I see it, the noise of the mule is a non-issue, or at least an issue that doesn’t warrant giving the mule away. The issue at hand is whether or not the mule can pull her own weight, and whether she’s an asset to the gang. If Mr. Bell can be shown that the mule is not a liability, but an asset, then his doubts will be assuaged.”

Micah was chewing on his cheek. He was giving Lenny that venomous look, like he had stepped in a trap and realized it too late. “Sure. Sounds fair.”

“Then let the mule prove herself,” said Lenny. “I say—”

“A race,” interrupted Micah. “Let the mule race Baylock.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped, and Lenny’s mouth clicked shut. Dutch laughed. “A race. Now, I actually like the sound of that.”

“But Dutch—” said Arthur.

“But nothing,” said Dutch. “It’s only fair, Arthur, and if it settles this nonsense between you two, it’ll be worth it. It’ll be entertaining if nothing else.” He clapped Lenny on the shoulder with his ringed hand and gave him a shake. “A regular Solomon, this one. Well-done son, well-argued.”

“If I win,” said Micah, “I get to sell this useless sack of glue for the few pennies she's worth.”

“And if I win?” asked Arthur.

“Then pigs will fall out of the sky,” said Micah.

“If Arthur wins, he gets Baylock,” said Lenny. “Seems fair.”

Micah hesitated. “Sure. Fair’s fair. Ain’t that right, Dutch?” Micah sidled to Dutch’s side, and Arthur felt a stab of misery down to his bones. “Don’t worry, Arthur, I’ll sell Rooster to a nice farm, somewhere well out of earshot.”

Micah and Dutch walked back to the camp. Pearson and Grimshaw were up and milling about, throwing logs on cookfires and getting ready for the day. Folks were just starting to crawl out of their tents, wandering into the woods to relieve themselves or take a walk while breakfast was cooking. Arthur felt a warm nose blow on the back of his neck, and reached up to pat the mule’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” said Lenny. “I was trying to angle things in your favor.”

“You did the best you could,” said Arthur. “Thanks, kid.”

“Don’t mention it. Micah really is a bastard. I can’t believe Dutch listens to him like that.”

“Me neither.” Arthur found a flattened pack of cigarettes in his pocket and offered the last one to Lenny. Lenny lit it and sat back on the T-Bar.

“So, what are you going to do?” he asked.

Arthur stroked the mule’s face, looking up into her stubborn brown eyes. “Don’t know. She can’t win against Baylock. She’s a lot of things, but she ain’t fast like him.”

“Maybe I can help out. If y’all are going to race, there needs to be a track.”

“What you got in mind?”

“Nothing yet,” said Lenny. “But let me think on it.”

Arthur laughed. “Mr. Summers, you are more devious than you first appear.”

Lenny took a drag on the cigarette. “Did I ever tell you about my mother?”

“No, reckon you didn’t.”

“Daddy was a lawyer. He met my mother in St. Louis when he represented her in a court case. She had won six card games against six different white men on a riverboat and taken all their cash and wedding rings to boot. They wanted to jail her for cheating. A Negro woman couldn’t be that clever and good at cards, they said. My daddy proved that she’d won by the book, and then they both got out of town real quick.”

“And did she?” asked Arthur. "Win fair and square, I mean?" 

Lenny grinned a slow, wide grin. “Define 'fair and square.'”

* * *

Life at Clemens Point was so stale and stagnant that word of a race whipped up a fair bit of excitement. While Dutch and Lenny worked out where the track was going to be laid, everyone else started taking bets, mostly against Arthur and the mule.

“No offense,” Karen told Arthur while he was shaving at his mirror. “But you do know the horse you’re gunning against is a Missouri Fox Trotter?”

“Just prepare to be sober for the next month,” said Arthur, paring the razor down his throat, “because you’re gonna lose all your whiskey money.”

“Pfft. Look at the britches on this one. Tell him, Javier. He ain’t winning tomorrow.”

“She’s right,” said Javier, leaning against Arthur’s tent pole. He scratched a match across the bottom of his boot and lit a cigarette. “Baylock was bred for racing. Your mule has heart, Arthur, but she’s not going to be able to keep up.”

“Where’s Dutch when you need a sermon on faith,” murmured Arthur, swirling the razor around in a jar full of water.

“We finally going to be able to sleep in after this?” Sean strode up, grinning despite the huge gaps where his front teeth used to be. “Imagine, a morning without Rooster screaming like a man in the throes of passing a stone. Will be blessed silence to my ears.”

“You sure you want to test me with a razor in my hand, boy?” said Arthur.

“All I'd have to do to get away from you is jump on Ennis and spur out of here,” said Sean, giving his woodpecker laugh. “That clodhopper donkey of yours is used to eating dust.”

Arthur dropped the razor in the soapy jar and wiped his face with a towel. He gave Sean a long look, and the boy was smart enough to back down.

“All right, all right! We’ll all pretend you ain’t going to lose tomorrow, Arthur. For moral support,” said Sean.

“Don’t need moral support,” said Arthur.

What he needed was a miracle.

* * *

The morning of the race came around, and Arthur woke to the braying of his mule. It sent a strong ache through his heart, and he wondered if he had betrayed his old friend by agreeing to this.

He walked slowly across the damp pasture to where the mule was grazing. Arthur brushed her old, scarred hide, checked her hooves, and fed her a little bit of oatcake he had in his pocket. She nipped his hand, and he slapped her nose. but the next time she gave him a nuzzle, and they were kindly after that.

Around the time the sun was coming up, folks started waking and setting about their chores. Most everyone moved a little faster than usual, getting ready for the race. Arthur was putting his saddle on the mule when Tilly, Abigail, and Jack came walking through the high grass.

“Just came to wish you luck,” said Tilly.

“You’re apparently the only ones,” said Arthur.

“To be honest, I really hope you win, Arthur. I can’t imagine you riding anything but old Rooster. It would break my heart a little to see her go," said Tilly. 

“Sure, because what would folks make jokes about then?”

“It is a little funny,” said Tilly. “I mean, you and she are perfect fit. Stubborn as the day is long.”

“Can I put a flower in her mane?” asked Jack.

Arthur lifted up Jack so he could tie a dandelion in the mule’s mane.

“Her ears are pretty,” said Jack, as Arthur set him down. “Where did you get her, Uncle Arthur?”

“Stole her from a mine,” said Arthur. “Some bad men were whipping her to death.”

“Oh,” said Jack. “That’s sad.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Arthur.

Abigail sighed. “I really hope you beat Micah today, Arthur Morgan.”

The girls took Jack and walked back to camp. Arthur tossed his saddle over the mule’s back and set to cinching it. She turned her head and blinked at him with her deep brown eyes that were more intelligent than any horse he had ever known. He had to swallow past a lump as he checked the length of her stirrups.

“Arthur!” Lenny came through the tall grass, a grin on his face. “Did Dutch show you where the track runs through?”

“No, but I reckon he will,” said Arthur. “Why? What did you figure out?”

“It’s true that you can’t beat Micah with speed alone,” said Lenny. “But there’s more to racing than speed. The track I laid out with Dutch runs through all sorts of rough terrain, the kind with dips and rocky hills that Micah won’t be able to sprint through.”

“And the mule….” said Arthur with rising hope.

“The mule will do what mules do best. Micah’s got agility, but your mule’s got brawn and brains. The last length of the track is a straight shot of flat grass, so that’s where you’ll be in the most trouble, but if you can stay ahead of Micah—”

“Then we might win this thing." Arthur clapped Lenny on the shoulder. “You just spared me from having to buy a new horse.” Arthur hesitated. “How did Dutch let you get away with laying out the track like that?”

“Easy,” said Lenny. “I let him think it was his idea.”

“Lenny Summers,” said Arthur. “I will buy you a drink for this.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” said Lenny.

* * *

Arthur led his mule through the forest to the little clearing along the river where the rest of the gang was congregating. Folks had pulled up logs to sit on, with Dutch sitting under the only tree in sight. The starting line was marked by a stick in the mud with yellow bloomers hung atop it. Arthur led his mule to the stick and mounted up.

He heard hooves, and turned to see Micah on Baylock.

“Well, didn’t think you’d actually show, Morgan. Guess you do have some honor,” said Micah.

“More than you do, that's for sure,” said Arthur.

Sitting beside Baylock, Arthur felt a swoop of doubt. Baylock was one of the most impressive horses Arthur had every seen: a Missouri Fox Trotter, fifteen hands of banded muscle and sinew, able to outstrip every lawman on the plains. Micah had brushed his coat to a glossy black, and his long mane and tail had been greased. He would have been at home at any real derby.

Dutch stepped out from under the tree. “Now, here’s how this is going to work, gentlemen. The track is laid out by markers. The markers run for a mile and a half. The track goes around the field, past the mossy shed, up the hill, down the hill, and the final stretch right back here. Try to give us a good show.”

“Say goodbye to your jackass, Morgan,” said Micah.

“Ready—” Dutch raised his hand.

Arthur gripped the reins.

“Ride!”

Baylock surged forward in a spray of red mud. Arthur put his heels to Rooster, and she started up. Uncle hooted, and John shouted, “Give him hell, Arthur!” Miss Grimshaw, Reverend Swanson, and Mary-Beth waved him on as he picked up speed.

Baylock was already pulling away down the green. Micah was sticking his spurs to horseflesh, trying to get an early lead. His Missouri Fox Trotter had the benefit of speed and endurance—he didn’t have to worry about depleting his reserves. As Arthur watched the distance widen between them, he felt his confidence begin to waver. With every gallop of the mule, Baylock spurred a little faster, and the distance between them grew on that flat stretch of grass. He urged the mule faster, and she huffed at him, picking up a little more speed as she chugged along sedate and steady as a steamer.

Micah looked back and laughed. “Eat my dust, Morgan!”

Baylock was starting around the bend in the trail when a herd of boar darted squealing from the brush. Baylock skidded and reared, Micah fighting with the reins. The mule flattened her ears and charged right through the pigs, snorting at them with contempt.

“What was that you were saying?” called Arthur. “C’mon!”

Rooster cantered around the curve, onto the old, abandoned road that ran through the hills that abbuted the river. Arthur wasn’t more than a few lengths when he heard the huffing breaths of the Missouri Fox Trotter behind him, gaining, keeping pace, then flying past.

“You’ll need more than dumb luck to beat me, Morgan!” shouted Micah. Baylock shot past him in a streak of black lightning. Arthur urged the mule on as best he could, keeping his own pace, and praying that Lenny was right about the terrain he’d laid out.

They tore down the road, kicking up red clay and dust as they tore up the track, past the kudzu covered houses and their sunken barns. The road split up ahead, and a stick hung with a pair of Uncle’s skidmark-stained bloomers steered them toward the left path up a hill. The hill was uneven and made of loose clay and rocks. Baylock raced up it, and the mule resolutely followed.

It was only at the top of the hill that it became clear just how treacherous the track was. The drop on the other side was steep. Baylock threw his head back, the gravel hissing around his hooves as Micah urged him down. The horse’s blue eyes rolled, his hooves sliding and skidding as he inched, fearfully, down the incline.

The mule didn’t even pause. She went nimble as a goat down that slope, her head low, chugging along without a fear in the world. Arthur had heard it said that a mule could see all four of its hooves in a way that a horse couldn’t, and that mule hooves were curved, making them the better climbers. Arthur had experienced that firsthand more than once, when he had had to escape the law and push his mule down a rugged path no horse could follow.

He heard Micah cursing and Baylock skidding behind them, and Arthur felt a little awed. “I’ll be damned,” he said, as the mule leaped the last few feet off the hill. “Never should have doubted you, girl. Let’s ride.”

The mule’s blood was up now, and she charged like a bull onto the long road. There was only the final stretch left—a long green field that ran to the finish line. Arthur could see folks standing and waving, some cheering and others cursing.

Arthur gave the mule her head. Far behind him, he heard Baylock leap off the hill and hit the grass. Arthur whipped the reins, laying himself flat. He chanced a look back.

Micah was bloodying his spurs, and Baylock was shooting like a black arrow across the grass. Micah’s hat flew off, and the grin on his face was triumphant.

“Not good enough, Morgan!” The gap was closing. The mule was giving it her best, but Baylock’s long legs were chopping the earth. All Arthur could think about was how he should have beaten Micah senseless instead of accepting the bet, and how his mule was going to be sold off to some bastard who'd work her to death, all on account of his foolishness.

Dutch was standing up. The finish line was close. Baylock leapt like black fire into Arthur’s periphery, his flanks heaving as he charged ahead, until he was neck and neck with the mule.

“I win, Arthur!” Micah shouted. “I told you, you never stood a chance!”

“Goddamn you!” They ran neck and neck. The mule looked across at Baylock, and Baylock looked back at her. The mule’s ears went flat against her head.

In a blur, the mule peeled back her lip and bit Baylock on the face.

Baylock screamed. The horse threw his head and faltered, falling behind. It was all the mule needed to take the lead. Rooster crossed the finish line seconds before Baylock did. Over Abigail and Lenny and Hosea cheering, Arthur heard Javier curse in two languages. Dutch was waving his carved pipe, shaking his head and laughing.

“You won, Arthur!” shouted Jack.

Arthur dismounted. He patted the mule on her sweaty neck, half drunk with the cheers and laughing himself. He was almost too elated to hear Micah leap from the saddle and spin him around.

“You cheated!”

The cheers died down. Arthur set his jaw. “How you figure?”

“Your mule bit Baylock,” said Micah. “Look at him.”

There was a flap of flesh hanging open on Baylock’s cheek. The horse shivered, looking confused and miserable as blood ran in rivulets down his neck.

“I would have won if that animal of yours hadn’t gone rabid,” said Micah.

“Wasn’t aware it was a cotillion,” said Arthur. “You gonna blame your sore loss on etiquette?”

“I want a rematch, a fair one, “said Micah. “One on flat terrain, with even lanes and no pigs. It was unfair and you know it, Morgan.”

“Oh, stop bellaching,” said Arthur. “You wanted a race and you got a race. Now you’re sore because you lost.”

“Dutch!” said Micah. 

Dutch looked between them. He had that pleased look on his face when folks appealed to him to be the judge of something. Arthur could see the gears turning in his head as he weighed the best way to draw this out, until Lenny stepped forward.

“It was your track, Dutch,” said Lenny. “You laid it out fair and square. There was as much flat terrain as rocky, so it was evenly matched, just like you said. Seems clear to me the fault lies with chance, not with your design.”

Dutch sucked on his pipe. “You’re right. Now, Micah, I think it’s more than clear that Arthur here won the race. The terms were shook upon, and the matter is settled. It pains me to say it, son, but you lost.”

For a moment, Arthur thought Micah might kill him and everyone else right then and there. A vein stood out in his forehead, and his eyes turned glassy and strange. Then it all sluiced off him, and his mouth twisted up in a smile. “Course. Fair’s fair. Arthur gets to keep his mule.”

“And Baylock,” said Lenny.

“And Baylock.” Micah’s jaw worked. “I suggest you tend to that bite of his. Wouldn’t want it to fester.”

And with that, Micah walked with forced slowness back to camp. Lenny gave a low whistle. “Might want to sleep with one eye open, Arthur.”

“Nah,” said Arthur, scratching the mule’s chin. “He’s crazy, but he’s not stupid. He’ll bide this one for now.”

Dutch came over and clapped him on the back, and suddenly all was right with the world. “I have to admit, you surprised me, son. I didn’t think that old mule of yours still had it in her.”

Arthur stroked the mule’s damp face, the sound of his friends cursing over lost bets and won bets and Sean’s horrible laugh filling him with deep ease. The mule bumped him with her head and stamped her foot. “Yeah, well, I had doubts myself.”

* * *

Arthur did tend to the bite on Baylock’s cheek, and the next day he and Lenny rode him up to the livery at Emerald Ranch. He paid the stablemaster for two months board in advance, and gave him some medicine to put on Baylock’s bite to make sure it healed right. Then he led his mule outside and rode her back to camp.

Micah ended up buying a nag from some backwoods breeder in Rhodes. It was a chestnut filly with a black temper and sharp teeth, and she bucked Micah off twice the first day he had her. Arthur watched while Micah seethed on her, all his rage churning horrible and ugly inside him, before it turned into a laugh that would have made a dog whimper. It was all too sweet.

Arthur gave the mule a heap of carrots for her reward. Lenny and Hosea came up to him one hot afternoon while Arthur was feeding her one. “You ready?” asked Lenny. 

“Sure," said Arthur. 

“Personally, I’m glad,” said Hosea. “I would have been sorry to see her go. It’s not like it would have been easy for you to find an animal that's just as stubborn, dumb, and mean as you are.”

“You think by now folks would have come up with a new joke,” said Arthur.

Hosea patted the mule on the neck. She snapped at him, and he yanked his hand back. “Yup, definitely your twin.”

Arthur and Lenny mounted up and rode down the forest path. The saloon in Rhodes opened early and closed late.

“Thanks again,” said Arthur, when they were out of sight of camp. “You could have just as easily bet against me and won a heap.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you,” said Lenny.

“Still, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They rode in companionable silence, the dappled forest path opening to harsh yellow sun.

“So,” said Lenny after a spell. “You gonna give Baylock back to Micah?”

“Maybe in a few months,” said Arthur. “We'll see if he's willing to do some chores around camp for a change. If he can bring himself to shovel manure for an hour, we'll talk. I might even rent Baylock to him, should I feel so charitable.”

"You are a cruel man, Arthur Morgan." 

"Yeah," said Arthur, patting Rooster's neck. "Cruel and ornery."


End file.
